Night Work (6 page)

    "No problem," Jerry mumbled.

    Vincent picked up the stool and slid it back against the bar. "I'm outta here. Take it easy, Mick."

    The bartender nodded. "You take care, Vincent, and tell Michael I said hello."

    By the time he and Frank reached the car Vincent had already begun to laugh. They tore out of there without another word, putting quite a distance between themselves and the bar before Frank was able to relax.

    Throughout the morning and early afternoon, in between stops, Frank had done his best to explain all that had happened with Charlie Rain as well as the plans he and Gus had already formed to that point. Vincent listened intently and occasionally asked a question or two, purposely refraining from offering any definite opinions of his own.

    "Can you believe Jerry?" Vincent shook his head wearily. "Dumb bastard's been borrowing money from shylocks since I was a kid, for Christ's sake. Like I'm gonna take an envelope full of cash in a public place and discuss my brother's personal business."

    The neighborhoods improved somewhat once they ventured beyond that section of the city, and Frank was reminded of why he'd traded city life for Angel Bay and why he had promised himself that he'd never live in any city again.

    "The stupid shit spends too much time at bars and betting horses - not that I blame him. He's got a wife so ugly I'd sooner kill myself than fuck, and a kid about our age who's an even bigger loser than he is."

    "How does a guy like that ever pay back big money?"

    "He's not in for big money, Frank. Shit, he probably only borrowed about a thousand bucks. Figure he's done business with Michael for years so I'll bet compared to a guy right off the street he hardly pays much juice. Still, you think a guy like Jerry can walk into a bank and get a legitimate loan?"

    No, Frank thought. But then again, neither could he. At least not the kind he'd need to start the business. "You think he'll come up with the money by tomorrow?"

    Vincent shrugged. "Who gives a shit?"

    "Wouldn't want to be him if he can't."

    "They might slap him around a little - maybe even break something - but it's not like in the movies where loan sharks whack people out because they owe them a few bucks."

    Frank nodded. "Can't get money from a corpse."

    "Fuckin' A."

    They came to a red light, and surprisingly, Vincent actually stopped for it. "I've got to swing by Michael's office," he announced, glancing both ways for cops. "After that we can hang out at my place and talk."

    "Just wait for the light, will ya?"

    Vincent grinned like a shark just before he ran the light. They bolted through the intersection, leaving blaring car horns, screeching tires and, Frank was certain, his lower intestines in their wake.

    They pulled onto one of the busier and more congested streets in the city, where one could find just about anything: Food, entertainment, independently owned shops, larger outlets, bars, cultural and learning centers, office spaces, and a highly diverse mixture of people.

    Vincent parked in front of Dino's, a small clothing store where suits and slacks made from the finest Italian fabrics were sold. A factory in the city imported the fabric, handled the design and production of the clothing, and then shipped product not only to Dino's but also to various outlets across the country.

    Michael Santangelo owned the entire operation.

    Frank decided to wait in the car while Vincent ran in. He returned in less than five minutes, hopped behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic without comment. Once they had traveled a few blocks, he handed Frank five twenty-dollar bills. "What's this for?"

    "Helping me out."

    Frank had gone on the route with Vincent many times and he'd always been paid. But after only helping at one stop he hadn't expected compensation. "You don't have to - "

    "Hey, you don't want it? Give it back."

    "Did I say I didn't want it?" Frank smiled and buried the money in his wallet. "I just said you didn't have to pay me."

    "Don't worry about it. He gave me five hundred for the day."

    When he wasn't running errands or visiting people who owed his brother money (known by the family as the "juice route"), Vincent sold used cars at a lot owned by his cousin, Jimmy. Although the opportunity to work with Michael on a full-time basis had always been an option, Vincent had never wanted a life of crime, preferring instead to move along the outskirts of the world his brother inhabited.

    At the city limits they stopped at the lot, switched the Escort for Vincent's Corvette, and drove back over the border into Massachusetts. A few minutes later they reached Vincent's apartment in New Bedford.

    Vincent lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a quiet side street in a working-class neighborhood. There was a small fenced-in yard, a gated driveway where he could park his car without fear of theft or damage, and a private side entrance.

    The front door opened directly into a large kitchen. Vincent went to the refrigerator. "You want something to drink?"

    "What have you got?"

    "Couple cans of soda."

    "What else?"

    "Some soda."

    "I guess I'll have a soda."

    Vincent tossed a can of Pepsi at him and took one for himself. "Come on, I gotta work out."

    "Can't you take a day off, for Christ's sake?"

    One bedroom was set up as a gym. A large weight bench sat in the center of the room, flanked by a stationary bike, and a freestanding, combination heavy and speed bag station. Several weapons were scattered across a low table along the back wall, including two ninja swords and an assortment of mostly illegal pieces generally associated with the martial arts. Steel plates were stacked neatly on the floor, and three of the four walls were covered with posters of bathing beauties and centerfold models. The fourth wall had been decorated with women's underwear tacked up into uniform rows.

    When Vincent returned from the bathroom he was dressed in a pair of shorts, sneakers and a tight fitting t-back tank top. He stretched while Frank admired what they commonly referred to as the "wall of shame".

    "Couple new entries here."

    Vincent grinned. "The blue lace and the white crotchless."

    "Anybody I know?"

    "The spic with the big tits I was telling you about. Rosa something. I chased her around for a month before she finally gave in. Threw that whore a good one. Eyes all rolled up in her head, calling out shit in Spanish. What an idiot."

    Frank fingered the white pair. "And these?"

    "Margot."

    "I didn't know you were seeing her again."

    "Only from behind."

    "I always liked her. Nice looking girl."

    "They all look the same with their feet in the air, Frank. If it weren't for the pussies I'd have nothing to do with any of them. I mean, Christ, it's not like you can talk to them or anything. I'd rather just fuck them and boot their asses out the door, you know?"

    "You're such a romantic, Vin."

    "That's me. I'll take a nice sloppy blow job over a candlelight dinner any day of the week, goombah."

    "How poetic."

    "No, just true."

    "Don't you want to find somebody to settle down with?"

    "I won't live that long."

    "But what if you do?"

    "Then I'll end up being one of those dirty old men jacking off in the park. How's that for a retirement plan?"

    Frank shook his head. "You're fucking deranged."

    "True enough. C'mon, gimme a hand."

    They slid two hundred pound steel plates onto the bar perched across the weight bench. As Vincent lay down Frank moved to the back to offer a spot. "How many?"

    "Three sets of ten, like always."

    Once he'd finished pushing the weight with amazing ease, Vincent sat up on the edge of the bench and wiped himself off with a towel. "Too hot for this shit today. I'm gonna hit the bag for a few minutes and call it."

    Frank leaned against the weapons table, watched Vincent pull on a pair of low ounce gloves. "Plan on telling me what you think about the deal any time soon?"

    "We'll head downtown and talk over a couple beers."

    "Can't. Promised Sandy we'd have a quiet dinner tonight."

    "I'll have you home in plenty of time."

    "Uh-huh. Coming home drunk would be a hell of an idea about now," Frank mused. "She's not nearly pissed off at me enough."

    Vincent bounced on the balls of his feet, circling the heavy bag while snapping off quick, stiff jabs. "You should've never got married, goombah. I tried to tell you this would happen. Didn't I try to tell you this would happen?"

    "It's not so bad."

    "Don't get me wrong." Vincent planted himself and launched a straight right into the center of the bag. It swung back, causing the chain to nearly dislodge from the hook supporting it. "Sandy's a nice kid - I always liked her. If I suddenly went brain dead and decided to get married, I'd want a girl just like her."

    "I'll be sure to tell her," Frank said in an attempt to mask his concern. He knew Vincent well enough to realize that he was purposely delaying their discussions regarding the deal. There had to be a problem.

    Vincent changed his stance and threw a series of thrusts, and then roundhouse kicks. He finished with a spinning back-fist, the blow hitting the bag with a dull but resounding thud.

    "So talk to me," Frank said.

    Vincent peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto the table. "I like the deal," he said carefully. "And Michael is willing to help us out by making the necessary financial arrangements."

    "Then what's the problem?"

    Vincent gulped some soda and belched loudly. "You want me to be completely honest with you, Frank?"

    "I was hoping you'd lie."

    "It's your buddy."

    Frank grabbed the towel from the bench and handed it to Vincent. "You mean Gus?"

    "Yeah, the fashion plate with the dead squirrel on his head and the coffee stains all down the front of him."

    "Jesus H.," Frank sighed. "I spend my life defending this fucking guy."

    Vincent wiped sweat from his eyes. "That ought to tell you something, no?"

    "There's no problem with Gus, man."

    "Frank, he's a fucking idiot. I don't mean to disrespect your friendship - I know you guys are tight and all - but you've got to look at this from my end. This isn't like the scams we bought into in the past. This deal could put us in the big time. It's going to take a lot of work, a lot of risk, and I don't want it blown because some circus freak I don't even know fucks everything up."

    "I'm telling you he's all right."

    "I only met the guy a few times and already I know he's not the type you go into business with. Christ, if the way the motherfucker looks isn't bad enough - and in most cases, it is - he talks like a goof, Frank. The first time I meet the guy he starts with this bullshit about being a Ninjitsu master and how he kicks ass all the time. He hits me with so many lies in the first few minutes I start thinking maybe this guy's a retard or something. I figure there's no way a normal man is gonna say such stupid fucking things to me, you see what I'm saying? And this is the first time I met him, Frank. The first time."

    "You let me worry about Gus," Frank told him.

    Vincent draped the towel over his shoulder. "You know me better than that."

    "Vin, what the hell you expect me to do? He's a loyal friend and he's a great salesman, too. He could help us out."

    "Do you honestly expect me to put my ass on the line for a guy like that? Do you think for one minute that we could sit down for a meeting with my brother and have Gus with us? Come on, for Christ's sake, you're acting like a fucking jerk about this. I understand he's your friend, I got plenty of crazy friends too, but you don't see me making them my fucking business partners, do you?"

    "I can't cut him loose."

    "This has nothing to do with anything but business."

    Frank followed Vincent back into the kitchen. He knew deep down that Vincent was right, but the thought of betraying Gus riddled him with guilt. "I can't fuck the guy over on this, Vin. I can't. He doesn't deserve that. I'm the only friend he's got."

    "Tragic, but not my problem or yours. Let him join a fucking dating service."

    Frank stared into Vincent's dark eyes for several seconds without speaking. "What do you want me to do?"

    "I'm not asking you to cut him out completely," Vincent explained. "If you want to hire him because you think he could help us out in the long run, then I got no problem having him around. But he can't be a partner, Frank. Period."

    "Don't seem right," Frank said softly.

    Vincent shrugged. "That's the way it's got to be or I'm out. Come on, Frank, use your head. You know I'm right about this."

    The humidity in the room seemed to increase, and Frank felt sweat beading along his forehead. He went to the window, opened it, and watched a small group of children playing in the street below. "I'll take care of it."

    "Good." Vincent smiled. "Now let's talk for real."

    "I'm listening."

    "I gave Michael a figure. How does twenty-five large sound? Think we can pull things together with that kind of coin?"

    Frank turned from the window. "Are you serious?"

    "As a heart attack."

    "Twenty-five grand?"

    "With ease."

    An uncontrollable urge to laugh overtook him. Twenty-five thousand dollars far exceeded what he'd hoped Michael might be willing to front them. "What's the juice?"